


Trust Me

by straponselina



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Semi-Public Sex, abuse of subordinate clauses, an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, i haven't done any substantial writing in the past 3 years other than academic papers and it shows, wacky interrogation techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23592037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straponselina/pseuds/straponselina
Summary: Lalo demands a party to celebrate his release from jail. Nacho has trouble getting in the spirit of things.
Relationships: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	Trust Me

**Author's Note:**

> For posterity: this was written in between "Bagman" and "Bad Choice Road." I made up a lie for Jimmy to tell Lalo about why he was late with the bail. Undoubtedly, the BCS writers will come up with something much better, meaning this fic will only have a shelf life of a couple days. But fuck it! I'm just trying to get from Monday to Monday.

It was 7 a.m. Nacho was awoken by the sound of his burner buzzing on his bedside table, making the keys, watch, and handgun there vibrate with it. The morning sun crept through the curtains, painting Amber and Jo in a soft yellow glow. They were snuggled together on the other side of the bed, dead to the world. Suppressing his jealousy, Nacho allowed himself a few deep inhales before answering, steeling himself for whatever fresh hell awaited him on the other side of the line. 

“I’m getting out today.” Lalo was chipper, much too chipper for 7 a.m. 

“Yeah, I heard.” The lawyerー McGill or Goodman or whatever the fuck his name wasー had called him after posting the bail. It was a bizarre phone call. He had sounded delirious, rambling on about how he was a lawyer, not a bagman, and work like that was meant for guys like Nacho. “ _Yo soy abogado!_ ” he’d said over and over again, as if Nacho didn’t speak English. It hadn’t taken long for Nacho to hang up on him. He wasn’t going to apologize on Lalo’s behalf. Nor was the lawyer owed an apologyー Nacho had heard about his $100,000 commision. He got in with both eyes open. But underneath Nacho’s irritation and rage, doubt had begun to brew. Work like that _was_ meant for guys like him. So why hadn’t he gotten the call? 

“ _So_ ,” Lalo said in that way of his that made Nacho want to punch him, “you gonna throw me a party or what?”

With a barely concealed groan, Nacho scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to be joking. _I’m the de facto head of you’re family’s Albuquerque operations, not you’re fucking party planner._ “Shouldn’t you be headed back south?”

Lalo’s tone grew irritated. “I’ll take off tomorrow morning. But first, we celebrate! Come on, man, it’s what you _do_ when someone gets out!”

Nacho was grateful Lalo couldn’t see him as he rolled his eyes. They hadn’t thrown Domingo a party, nevermind the briefness of Lalo’s stay. Nacho watched the girls, completely serene and totally oblivious to what happened around them. Nacho wondered what would happen if he hung up the phone and went back to sleep. Could he feel like that, serene and oblivious, for at least a moment?

“Okay. What kind of party?” Nacho could guess what he wanted, but Lalo didn’t exactly broadcast his appetites like Tuco did.

“Surprise me, Ignacio, I trust you!”

Nacho bit back a mirthless laugh. Part of him wished he could have recorded that and played it for Fring. 

Luckily for Nacho, the rest of the conversation was clipped and perfunctory. Lalo signed off with a cheery “see you tonight!” Nacho immediately flopped back down on his pillow. So this was it. All he had to do was get through one night, one party, and then Lalo Salamanca would be gone. Out of the picture. His bed had never felt more comfortable. He’d sleep for just a couple more hours, and then he’d call Blingy and delegate the debauchery to him.

* * * * * 

As soon as Nacho arrived at 4’s Cabaret, he regretted putting Blingy in charge. He had made sure they had the strip club to themselves, but the place was still packed to the rafters. Every Albuquerque crew under the crocodile-skin boot heel of the Salamanca family was represented. The thick aroma of weed and the acetone-smell of meth mixed unpleasantly in the air, and the heavy bass of the reggaeton bred with the whooping and hollering of the crowd in a jarring cacophony. Nacho’s irritation spiked as he surveyed the room. Gonzo and No-Doze were sitting near the edge of the stage with Carlos and about a half-dozen of his guys, leering at the brunette sliding down the pole. Blingy was laughing loudly towards the back, under a tacky Kinko’s banner that read “¡LIBERTAD!” and next to a street-dealer Nacho knew had been short on the count last week. Domingo was getting a lap dance from a disinterested-looking girl as a bunch of heavily tattooed guys Nacho barely recognized cheered them on. God, even fucking Arlo was here. It was a Friday night, and instead of hitting the streets, practically all of the Salamancas’ muscle and movers were crammed into a dingy strip club on the edge of town.

The only person missing was the guest of honor. Nacho had offered to pick him up at the county jail, but Lalo had declined. How would that look, Jorge de Guzman getting a lift from a “known associate” of Tuco Salamanca? It was perfectly rational, but something about it fanned the flames of Nacho’s paranoia. That, and the fact that Lalo had asked the lawyer and not him to pick up the seven million. Maybe he was cocky, maybe he was foolish. Maybe it was a desperate gambit by his unconcious to soothe his ever-mounting anxiety, but part of Nacho had believed that Lalo actually did trust him. He confided in him constantly about his plans to destabilize Fring’s operations, he asked him to burn down a _Pollos Hermanos_ , and he had left him in charge in his absence. But of course none of that equated trust. Throughout it all, Lalo was still in complete control. Nacho was in the game, _his_ game, and they both knew one bad move meant the entire cartel breathing down his neck. There was no need for trust or loyalty or any of that bullshit when you had fear. If only Lalo was the sole monster worth his fear.

Nacho monologuing was interrupted by a sudden eruption of cheering and applause. Nacho turned to the door and there he was, Lalo Salamanca, dressed in a fitted, flowered shirt tucked into freshly ironed navy slacks. He dressed up for this.

Lalo grinned maniacally as he hollered, “ _¡Estoy aquí! ¡Que comience la fiesta!_ ” 

The music was cranked up even louder and the high-level dealers began jostling through the packed club, each desperate to pat their leader on the back and buy him a drink. Nacho remained at his post by the bar, watching passively as Lalo basked in the sycophantic adoration. After finally accepting a glass of Dom Perignon from the faceless crowd, Lalo caught his eye and winked. Nacho’s stomach plummeted. 

Watching Lalo snort blow off a stripper’s tits, Nacho felt oddly wistful. It reminded him of Tuco. They used to come to this very same club, back when Nacho had seen him as something almost like a friend. Before Tuco had gotten in too deep with the crystal. Before he started turning his Lie Detector on whomever so much as looked at him funny. Before Nacho learned that being Tuco’s friend couldn’t protect you from a sawed-off shotgun to the skull. But for all of Tuco’s irrationality and violent capriciousness, Nacho always felt that he had some semblance of control in that relationship. He knew how to handle Tuco. Even when he was two-timing him, ripping off thieves on his own or selling oxy behind his back, he knew where he stood. But things were different with his cousin. Every time Nacho looked at Lalo, he felt like the rug had just been pulled out from under him.

As the night went on, Nacho managed to avoid Lalo. He drifted aimlessly around the club, nursing his drink as he talked to dealer after dealer about nothing but business. Despite his annoyance at them all taking the night off, things were good. Excellent, even. If there was one silver lining to Nacho’s situation, it was that Fring’s low-level dealers getting busted meant that for his crews, business was booming. But it didn’t feel like a victory. How could anything, when he constantly felt like there was a goon around every corner, waiting and watching? Even now, as he chatted with a dealer from sixth street, he felt like he was being watched. When he turned around, nothing. Just Lalo at a table in the middle of the crowded room, oblivious to him, toasting to his own freedom with Carlos, Domingo, and a handful of the dancers. He had his arm slung around Domingo’s shoulders like they were old friends, even though Nacho was confident he didn’t remember Domingo’s real name. 

Nacho turned back to the dealer as he gulped down the rest of the beer. He had planned on staying clear headed, but each time he felt eyes on the back of his head, he found himself bringing his drink to his lips. With this beer finished, all he could do was rub the back of his neck, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched as he asked the dealer about putting more muscle on his corner. Just when he started to feel at ease again, the conversation was interrupted by a heavy arm thrown around Nacho’s shoulders.

“Ignaciooo!” Lalo crooned. Nacho stumbled slightly as Lalo leaned his entire weight into his side. Nacho placed a hand on his chest to steady him. “It’s time for you and I to do some shots!” Even through the sing-songy tone, Nacho could tell it was an order.

Nacho let himself be manhandled towards the bar, his stomach in knots. At Lalo’s command, the bartender lined up five shot glasses and splashed tequila into each. Nacho watched Lalo’s Adam’s apple bob as he threw back one, and then another, slamming the glasses down on the bar. He turned back to Nacho.

“Drink up!”

Nacho eyed the remaining three shots. He looked back at Lalo. His expression was suddenly humorless, his Chesire cat grin dropped for the first time that evening. Without breaking eye contact, Nacho threw back the first shot. The tequilaー an expensive reposado that deserved to be sippedー burned in his throat and immediately set his head swimming. The corners of Lalo’s mouth twitched. Nacho threw back the second, and then the third. He broke eye contact for just a moment, placing the final shot glass gently back on the bar. When he returned his gaze to Lalo’s, something in him changed. The rug, pulled out from under him. He was off-kilter, unbalanced. His was a brittle, dead tree and Lalo was a violent, gale-force wind threatening to rip him from his roots. He wasー

“Why didn’t you ask me to pick up the seven mil?” The words were out of his mouth before he even had time to process the thought. Immediately, alarm bells started screaming in his head. _Bad move, bad move, bad move!_

Lalo blinked. He looked over his shoulder, taking his time to survey the room. The party was still in full swing, music blaring and a frenzied energy pulsing through the air. He turned back to Nacho, who was overcome with the irrational fear that Lalo could hear his heart pounding in his chest.

“Come with me.”

Lalo stood and began marching through the crowd. His stride was brisk and unwavering, a far cry from the man who had stumbled into Nacho’s side just minutes earlier. As Nacho followed, it slowly dawned on him where they were going. Lalo was headed towards a door set in the back wall, under a purple neon sign with looping scriptー a sign which read “ _Champagne Room_.” As they approached, they were followed by a few ill-advised snickers and mutters about a “private dance.” 

When they reached the back, Lalo pounded on the door, but didn’t wait for a response. He swung it open, revealing Domingo with a girl in his lap, the same one Nacho saw dancing on him at the beginning of the night. She had lost what little clothes she’d had and was running her hands over Domingo’s chest through his half-unbuttoned shirt. Domingo jolted and the girl tumbled off his lap with a squeal. 

“Out!” Lalo jerked his chin towards the door.

Domingo, eyes wide, grabbed the dancer by the hand and raced out of the room. In his hurry, he didn’t even notice Nacho. 

Lalo jerked his head towards the couch where Domingo had been sitting. Nacho obeyed, taking a seat.

Lalo closed the door, muffling the music to a dull thrum. Above the door, the only one in the room, was an EXIT/SALIDA sign, as if it weren’t obvious in such a small room. The perimeter of the room was lined with plush, velvet couches which Nacho prayed were regularly cleaned. The tinted incandescent lights recessed into the low ceiling bathed everything in a bloody carmine hue. Mirrors stretched the lengths of each wall, reflecting one another, infinitely multiplying everything in the cramped space. Nacho felt dizzy. 

Lalo walked towards Nacho, but did not sit down. He crossed his arms and peered down at him. In the low, red light, he looked devilish.

“Do you know why Goodman was late with my money?”

Nacho shook his head. He had hung up on the lawyer before he could explain anything.

“He said he was ambushed. Six guys cut him off in the middle of the desert. They were about to kill him when _bam!_ One of their guys goes down. Then, four more _cabrones_ roll up and open fire. Goodman, he hid under his car. Five minutes later and they had shot each other up. Goodman was the only one left alive. But they totaled his car, shot the alternator, so he had to walk all the way back with my money.”

Lalo paused, regarding Nacho. The story had to be a lie. Nacho couldn’t imagine this soft nobodyー James “I’m a lawyer, not a criminal” McGillー surviving a shootout and then trekking through the desert with over a hundred pounds of cartel money, alone. He must have had protection. Was this Fring?

“Lucky guy.”

Lalo shrugged. “He’s a survivor, like the _cucaracha,_ ya know? But here’s the thing. One gang, I get that. Someone back in Juarez, maybe from our stash house, knows where my cousins are headed so he calls up one of our competitors, gets himself a nice finder’s fee. My cousins, they can handle that. But two gangs? Where’s the second rat?”

Nacho felt like he was going to vomit. “Probably a second guy from the stash house, right? How many people knew where your cousins were headed?”

Lalo said nothing.

“. . . Do you think it was someone up here?”

With a sigh, Lalo ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know, man.”

Nacho watched as Lalo and a thousand of his reflections reached into their pockets. Nacho’s heart skipped a beat. He would have noticed the outline of a gun, but maybe it was a knife, maybe it was aー

No. It was a small brown vial. Lalo opened it and scooped out some white powder with a tiny silver spoon attached to the cap. He held it under Nacho’s nose. A peace offering.

The coke shot through his head like a bullet train. He threw a hand over his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch, waiting for the water-up-the-nose feeling to subside. Euphoria rushed through his body like a brush-fire, burning up all of his stress and anxiety. He felt weightless.

But then he raised his head. Lalo’s gaze was heavy and his expression glacial. His dark eyes seared through Nacho’s skin, through the flesh and the bone, right down to his soul. For the second time that night, Nacho thought of Tuco. It was the Lie Detector. The realization hit him like an anvil dropped from the sky. The cocaine wasn’t a peace offering— it was a truth serum, meant to strip away his inhibitions.

The last and only time he’d witnessed Lalo’s Lie Detector, Nacho had offered to kill his oldest friend. The cocktail of fear and cocaine set his endorphins wild, his heart suddenly pounding against his ribs like a jackhammer. On base, prey-animal instinct, he searched the room for an escape, but all he saw was _Lalo, Lalo, Lalo. (No salida, no salida, no salida)._

Then he had an idea. Not a good one, but the best he could do given the circumstances. He yanked Lalo down by the front of his flowered shirt and crashed their lips together.

Lalo stumbled, but quickly righted himself. He kissed back immediately, his silent interrogation seemingly forgotten. Grabbing Nacho roughly by the shoulders, he flipped their positions, and suddenly Nacho was being pulled into Lalo’s lap. An image of the stipper straddling Domingo flashed through his mind. He began fumbling with the buttons of Lalo’s shirt, Lalo licking ravenously into his mouth as he did so. Finally getting the shirt open, he ran his hands through coarse chest hair, fingers flicking over hard nipples. Lalo sunk his teeth into Nacho’s lower lip and growled, a sound that went straight to his dick. Nacho rolled his hips, pressing down on hardening length beneath him. He was taking this too far, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The next thing he knew, Lalo fingers were down the back of his pants and probing him open. Nacho threw his head back and moaned, forgetting for a moment that he was prey. Lalo immediately latched on to his exposed throat, mustache and teeth scraping over the sensitive skin. 

It wasn’t long before Lalo was pushing him off and yanking his pants down. Nacho shrugged his shirt off, too, for good measure. He took a moment to stand there and take in the sight he never thought he’d see: a half-naked and disheveled Salamanca with his huge, engorged cock in hand, waiting for him. Lalo flashed a toothy grin.

Nacho straddled his thighs and took a hold of Lalo’s dick, lining it up with his entrance. He squeezed his eyes shut as he slowly lowered himself down. Instantly, a new wave of euphoria washed over him. No pain, just perfection. Maybe it was the tequila, maybe it was the coke, or maybe it was the stark relief of finally, _finally_ feeling something other than fatalistic dread.

He opened his eyes. Lalo was staring at him, expression blank and unreadable. His chasmic eyes bore even deeper into his soul this time, but Nacho felt no fear. Holding Lalo’s gaze, Nacho brought his hand to his dick and began to stroke himself. Something shifted in Lalo’s expression, almost imperceptibly. A fire was lit behind his eyes.

Lalo grabbed Nacho by the waist and rocked up into him. Nacho rolled his hips to meet Lalo’s thrusts. He wrapped his arms around Lalo’s neck, not once breaking eye contact as he fucked himself on Lalo’s cock. Lalo’s mouth fell open as he began to pant. His thrusts quickened, violently so, and his hand replaced Nacho’s on his dick, stroking him fervently. Soon, Nacho erupted, thick ropes of cum landing on Lalo’s chest. Lalo didn’t falter, thrusting savagely until he followed suit. Nacho held his gaze.

The small room was silent save for their labored breathing and the distant, muffled trap music. Nacho stared into black, abyssal eyes and felt he could read everything and nothing in them. 

Finally, Lalo spoke. “It’s time for me to go home.” 

Nacho awkwardly pulled himself off Lalo and collapsed on the couch, chest still heaving. He watched as Lalo stood, wiped himself off with a napkin from the wet bar in the corner, and buttoned his shirt. He stepped in front of one of the many mirrors and smoothed his hair back. He walked to the door, but stopped to look back at Nacho one last time. There was no wicked grin on his face or malicious laughter behind his eyes. Nacho stared back. 

And then he was gone, leaving Nacho panting, confused, and alone in a blood-colored room.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. 4's Cabaret is the strip club Jesse, Combo, and Skinny Pete go to after Walt gives Jesse the money to buy the RV.
> 
> 2\. As always, please feel free correct my Spanish if you notice something off about it!
> 
> 3\. This fic was inspired by a shirt Tony Dalton was wearing in a picture with the Moncada brothers. That's where I'm at, inspiration-wise.


End file.
